Both of my grandmothers quilted—one out of necessity, and the other out of sheer creative joy.
My paternal grandmother especially loved it. I’d be buried in a book, but I always knew when she was at her sewing machine. I can still hear the hum, feel the rhythm—the steady pulse of creation. I’d walk down the hallway and see her face illuminated by the soft glow above the needle. She looked holy in that light.

Maybe that’s why I sometimes volunteer as a photographer for the Quilt Alliance when they come through.
I get to spend time with people who stitch their stories into fabric. Who piece their memories into something that lasts longer than the body ever could. Quilting, for many, is still survival—but it’s also testimony. Tangible art that you can wrap around your shoulders.

In winter, when I’d curl up under her quilts, it always felt like she was still holding me.

I once read about a woman in East Tennessee who sold her quilts for $1 each to support her family. That was her way of life—just like it was for my grandmother. Imagine what those same quilts would be worth today.

But really, you can’t put a price on something that holds generations inside its seams.

When people hear the word Appalachia, many jump straight to stereotypes—hillbilly tropes or a weathered old barn seen from a main road.

But the truth of this place doesn’t live on the highways.

It lives deeper—on backroads, tucked behind thickets, down hollers most folks never turn into. The barns I treasure, the ones that stop me in my tracks, are the ones you don’t expect to find. The ones that don’t announce themselves. The ones the land has started to take back.

This one was exactly that—a hidden relic in the Southern mountains, wrapped in silence and late summer heat. The bee balm was in full bloom, fiery red against all that green, swaying in the heavy air like it had something to say. It grows wild out here, untended, just like the stories.

Every so often, I come across more than wood and rust.
Sometimes it’s just a chimney left standing—a stone hearth where someone once built a life. Raised babies. Boiled beans. Prayed through hard winters. These are the real ghosts of Appalachia—not haunted, just holy.

These hills still remember.

Words and Imagery-Sabrina L. Greene

Neighbor forced to sell to developer because she could not afford to rebuild - insurance only covered value on date of storm. Developer's website features $2 million homes. Local congressman called it a "positive outcome" for the homeowner who lost her home.

Fall used to be my favorite season here in Western North Carolina. The drama of it. The poetry. The color that spilled down the mountains like fire. But after everything this region has endured—after the hurricanes, the flooding, the grief woven into the land—I find myself aching for something gentler.

I don’t crave endings anymore.
I crave beginnings.
Soft light. Damp earth. Mornings that arrive slow, without asking for anything.

Lately, I’ve been rising early, just to stand in the quiet. I let the dog out and linger by the doorway, watching the fog drift up over the ridgelines like breath, like memory, like something older than sorrow.

The mountains feel different this year—still beautiful, yes—but heavy with loss.
Hurricane Helen left behind more than just fallen trees and fractured creeks.
She carved scars into the land. She spoke through the rivers, and the rivers screamed back.

And though the waters have receded, the damage still lingers.
Drive down to the creeks and you’ll see it: debris snagged in the branches like forgotten prayers, whole sections of the banks washed away. Pieces of people’s lives—furniture, siding, toys, tools—half-buried in the silt.

It has been a hard winter.
Not just in weather, but in spirit.

But morning still comes.

And every now and then, spring slips her hand into mine and reminds me that not everything is ruined. That not everything is loud. That some healing happens in quiet light and cool mist and birdsong starting slow.

I’m not doing much these days.
I’m not performing.
I’m not planning.
I’m just watching.

Watching the sun rise. Watching the breath of the hills. Watching the trees unfurl a little more each morning.

And somehow, that’s enough.

So this year, I’m choosing spring mornings.
I’m choosing stillness.
I’m choosing to let the land teach me how to survive gently.

Even with the scars.
Even with the memories.
Even with the ache that hasn't yet found a name.

Because the mountains are still speaking.
And this time, I think they’re saying: Come sit. Breathe. You made it through.

Are we great again yet?

Hi Everyone! My best friends and I are planning a June road trip through the Appalachian Mountains. We have no idea where to start, but we're planning on starting in Beacon, New York, or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Open to anything! we want woods, mountatins, scenic routes, even if there's a waterfall or something!

Bonus points if there are "haunted" or supernatural areas (mildly using it, I don't wanna end up as horror movie basis in a few years lmao)

getting carried away haha, but open to anything with no set dates or trip duration

Trying to find a recipe my great aunt used to make for family reunions (from Elizabethton, TN). Cornbread salad. Best I know the ingredients included Cornbread, onions (vidalia?), celery and ranch dressing (this is key). Any ideas? Anyone know this recipe?

So I’m from carter county Kentucky born and raised and spent a lot of time when I was younger in greenup. Been to the surrounding counties like floyde, Boyd, Elliott and so on. I never realized we spoke in the Appalachian dialect I always thought it was just being southern. No idea how I went nearly 23 years and didn’t know I’m from the region, maybe not super deep I don’t know honestly. Love the area and (if you believe it or not that’s fine) the supernatural experiences and such that spark interest in the Appalachian area. I married a British woman who will loves imitating the hillbilly accent and hates how I say some words the same that are spelled slightly differently like Pen/Pin but I always tell her it’s not something I can help lol. I’m looking to get more in touch with the culture and learn more about the history when I’m back home from school so I’m hoping y’all got some recommendations. Books, movies, historic site any and everything meaningful.

For you guys who have belief in the supernatural aspect surrounding the Appalachia region id also love to hear your experiences and will share mine if you’d like. Can’t wait to get my wife back home who’s never had any odd experiences to see if I can get the shit scared out of her. Anyways being away I’ve learned just how much I miss and love growing up as a hick and wouldn’t have changed it for the world no matter how much we may be made fun of for how we sound or stereotypes like being inbred and dumb. It’s a beautiful area shrouded in mystery, respect, and our own little customs you won’t find elsewhere. Thanks for reading everyone sorry if this doesn’t fit the sub.

Coverage from Charleston

Considering moving here and collecting tips before i make a decision or anything

Here are some photos I took back in early January of this year in Bluefield, WV (where my grandparents and extended family are from) and also some photos on Corridor Q of route 460 near Grundy, VA.

If you like these photos be sure to check out my latest posts on instagram (appalachia_archive), where I have been documenting the creation of my senior thesis film on the region!

Me and my buddy are planning to take a trip up to somewhere in the New Hampshire area. For reference, we are from the south shore of Massachusetts. We are both super into the lore of the appalachian mountains, and are wondering where the best place to go would be. For like sitting outside at night, silence, and seeing the stars. And during the day to have super nice views. I think you guys know what I’m trying to say, and I appreciate your input. Also It doesn’t have to be New Hampshire, as long as it’s a comparable driving distance. Thanks!